


Under Your Spell

by Chiefest_of_Calamities



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, au!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:12:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiefest_of_Calamities/pseuds/Chiefest_of_Calamities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns a secret about the Holmes brothers. Johnlock if you squint really hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Spell

When Sherlock’s network of spies and informants delivers to him the name ‘Sebastian Moran’, John feels ice seep into his bones. Sherlock breathes the name into their small flat and he feels an irrational stab of fear; as if they had invited into their home an evil that had, until then, been little more than a looming presence over their lives. 

Sherlock betrays no such concern. In their time together, the only instance in which John has seen him display any inkling of fear was at the Pool. He feels no fear for himself, for his safety or his well-being. He remembers the time Lestrade pulled him out of the Thames, after he’d jumped in after a bag of poisoned catnip some murderer had tossed in, and yelled himself hoarse at the shivering detective.

 

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he finally said.

 

“Obviously,” had been the reply, completely devoid of emotion. “I have no delusions of dying a natural death.”

 

Lestrade had been shocked into silence. That one sentence haunted John for days on end, causing him to awake with a stab of anxiety that wouldn’t abate until he heard the detective pottering around in their shared space downstairs.

 

xxxxx

 

Sherlock pursues Moran with a vengeance. It is as if he is trying to do to Jim what the latter had to him at the Pool. If not for the respect he has for him, John would have told him right away that this is one endeavour in which he could not hope to succeed. Jim might be temporarily incapacitated without Moran, but he doesn’t care about the fate of his right-hand man any more than he cared about the fate of the people he strapped into the semtex vests. He does not care in the way Sherlock tries so very hard not to.

 

They corner the dishonourably discharged Colonel one day, and the man leads them on a wild goose chase down the darkened alleys of Hackney. Sherlock becomes alive during the chase, blood rising to colour the tips of his cheekbones, his eyes glittering with the thrill of the chase. The same thrill hums through John’s veins too as he runs after his detective, the gun a comfortable weight at his back. Moran kicks some bins over, and Sherlock has to slow down to avoid tripping over them. John takes the lead; he has his own vengeance to satisfy.

 

They round a corner into an unlit backstreet, and Moran turns on them. John barely sees him pull a gun from his pocket before the report of the gun being fired echoes around them. He’s been shot at too many times to be truly worried; the haphazard way Moran fired the shot would have caused the bullet to go wide.

 

Until he turns and sees Sherlock crumple to the ground.

 

Chase entirely forgotten, John runs to his downed friend, barely registering the sound of Moran’s receding footsteps and the soft muttering of his common sense that he really should not be turning his back on a man with a gun. Sherlock rolls onto his back as he approaches, drawing his knees towards himself in the beginnings of a foetal position. Blood has already begun pooling around him, and the thick, coppery tang of it makes John sick.

 

“Where are you hit?” he asks, pushing away the thick folds of Sherlock’s coat.

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer his question. His hands _normally steady, now shaking_ reach inside his jacket. “My,” he says “My…phone.”

 

John kicks himself for not thinking of calling an ambulance. He reaches inside Sherlock’s jacket and removes the phone, dialling 911 with thick fingers.

 

“No!” Sherlock grabs his hand before he can press call. “No…my…Mycroft. Call Mycroft.”

 

Later, John will wonder why he complied. He will wonder whether it was the urgency in Sherlock’s voice, or whether he was so used to complying with the detective’s instructions that it didn’t occur to him to question whether he was in his right mind when he made the demand.

 

Now, though, he scrolls through Sherlock’s contacts list until he comes to Mycroft’s name and hits call, all the while trying to peel away the layers obscuring Sherlock’s injuries from him. Sherlock doesn’t help; he writhes under John’s hands with more strength than he should have been able to muster.

 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s tinny voice interrupts his efforts.

 

“No, it’s John…listen, Mycroft, Sherlock’s been sho-“

 

His sentence is cut short when Sherlock wrenches the phone from his fingers. “Myc,” he gasps, rolling away from John as the latter tries to still him long enough to have a look at the wound. “My, help me.”

 

Mycroft must have said something, because he holds the phone out to John.

 

“Where are you?” Mycroft demands.

 

“Uhhh…it’s a backstreet, behind Hannafield road.“

 

“Don’t do anything,” Mycroft says. “I’ll be right there.”

 

X

 

When the sleek black Mercedes pulls up at the entrance to the alley, John barely notices it because he’s on the verge of a breakdown. Sherlock’s blood has seeped into the knees of his jeans and his gloves. He has finally wrestled Sherlock out of his coat and jacket, and the detective, having broken out in cold sweat, shivers from both the loss of blood and the chill of the November air.

 

And yet, he cannot see any wound on Sherlock’s body.

 

The clack-clack of Anthea’s heels on the road alerts him to her presence, and before he can come up with a suitable response, Mycroft is standing over Sherlock, his critical eyes taking in the sight of the detective splayed on the ground. Sherlock draws a shuddering breath at the sight of his brother, but Mycroft displays no discernible emotion at the same.

 

His calm, unflustered demeanour riles John. “Jesus – don’t just stand there. Get help!”

 

When Mycroft ignores him in favour of continuing to staring at Sherlock, John finally regains the state of mind to call for an ambulance. He’s just taken his phone from his pocket when something heavy slams into him from behind and sends the phone skittering down the road.

 

He struggles and twists to find that it is Anthea; she’s holding him down with strength he would not have attributed to her.

 

“What the hell are you playing at?” he barks at her, although the words are really meant for Mycroft.

 

Then a thought hits him and turns him cold. What if Mycroft had no intention of helping Sherlock? What if, in spite of the low-tar cigarettes and constant, hen-like surveillance, Mycroft really was another one of Sherlock’s enemies?

 

Over the sound of his own harsh breaths and the suddenly loud scrape of buttons against pavement as he struggles underneath Anthea, John can hear Mycroft talking to his brother.

 

“Show me,” he seems to be saying. “You need to show me.”

 

“No,” comes the ragged answer.

 

“I can’t help you like this. You’re working against me.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

Mycroft kneels beside him. “Sherlock, please, I know what you’re afraid of, but I think you’re underestimating him. If the bombs and the skull and _you_ haven’t driven him away, he’s hardly going to leave now.”

 

“This is different.”

 

And that’s when John realises that they are talking about him. He’s not Sherlock, but he’s heard enough of the conversation to understand what is going on. Sherlock is refusing to let anyone help him because he doesn’t want to show John where he has been hit, most probably because of some perceived fault. A scar, maybe? Scarring? A deformity?

 

“Oy, Sherlock,” he calls out. Both brothers stop and look at him.  

 

“It’s okay,” he says “Whatever it is, it’s okay. You need to let us help you.”

 

“No.” Sherlock struggles on the ground, and John can detect a trace of panic in his voice. “You wouldn’t understand. I…John…”

 

“Let go of me,” John snaps at Anthea. He doesn’t miss the fact that she only does so after a nod from Mycroft.

 

Moving quickly, he drops to one knee by Sherlock’s left side, mirroring Mycroft’s stance. Up close, it is painfully clear that the detective is grievously injured. His usually pale skin is now pallid and cold, and it is obvious from the way his eyes keep rolling back that he is clinging to consciousness by sheer force of will.

 

John takes his hand, and gives him a focal point for that willpower. “Remember…do you remember the first time we went to Angelo’s and you told me you were married to your work? Do you remember what I said?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrow; John is sure he would have cocked his head if he were not lying flat on the ground. “You…weren’t asking?”

 

“No. I said it’s all fine. I meant that. Whatever it is, whatever you’ve done, it’s all fine.”  

 

The pale blue eyes meet his. John doesn’t look away, hoping that the detective finds the reassurance he’s looking for from the way he blinks or the stains on his cuff or whatever. He’s still looking at him when he sees something crumble in Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“I’m sorry, John,” he whispers. “No.”

 

“What could be so awful that you’d rather die than show me?”

 

“This.” Mycroft’s voice catches him by surprise because he has entirely forgotten the presence of the other man.

 

Nothing could have prepared John for what Mycroft shows him. A flurry of white explodes into his vision, and for a long while he sits there, utterly confused as to what he is supposed to be seeing. When he finally understands, it does not make it any easier to accept. Mycroft appears to have sprouted a pair of wings. Wings. It is, above all else, ridiculous. A thousand questions explode to life in his mind the way Mycroft’s ridiculous wings just did; is it genetic? Was he born with it? If not, was its growth triggered by puberty? How does his concealment mechanism operate? Has he really accepted the reality of wings growing out of people to ask these ultimately pointless questions?

 

John looks to Sherlock again, glad that even in his surprise he has managed to hold on to his hand. Resignation and defeat are written clearly in Sherlock’s face; he closes his eyes, and for a moment, John feels both sympathy and panic.

 

Then, Sherlock’s wings bloom into view. Where Mycroft’s wings are almost blindingly white, Sherlock’s are black. Not jet-black or dull black; if he has to describe the colour of Sherlock’s wings, he would describe it as nothingness-black. Like looking into space, like cold infinity.

 

In his right wing is a ragged hole, and he finally sees where all the blood is coming from. The wound is ugly; blood stains and matts the feathers around it, filtering through them to spill onto the road.

 

Mycroft quickly dips his fingers into the wound. It makes his stomach churn, despite having seen and done far worse on the battlefield himself. Sherlock makes a short, sharp sound, but quickly suppresses any other show of weakness.

 

When Mycroft withdraws his hand, he clutches in his blood-slicked fingers a flattened bullet. John looks at him at the same time Mycroft glances his way, and their eyes meet for a short, awkward moment before both men turn their attention to the man on the ground.

 

Sherlock’s breathing is shallow, and his eyes half-closed, but the agonised writhing has stopped. John does not know whether to chalk it up to the removal of the bullet or blood loss finally taking effect, but he does know that the battle for Sherlock’s life is not yet over.

 

“Where now?” he asks Mycroft. “I’m guessing we can’t just take him to Bart’s and ask someone to please have a look at his wing.”

 

“No, we cannot.”

 

“So what are we going to do?”

 

Mycroft fixes him with a stare. “Nothing. My brother is more resilient than he looks, and the wound is not mortal any longer. He should be able to go back home.”

 

“So the massive blood loss is just, oh, absolutely nothing to worry about. He’ll just shake it off and be right as rain tomorrow.”

 

John does not expect Mycroft to pin him with just one look. “Dr. Watson, please consider for a moment how much you truly know about the events currently transpiring, and the limits of your doubtless excellent medical training.”

 

Mycroft is more than right, but John finds himself unwilling to back down. The standoff he is expecting never gets the chance to take off because Sherlock chooses that moment to extend a hand to Mycroft.

 

“Up,” he says. “Home.”

 

John is not too relieved to notice that Sherlock’s obvious and studious ignorance of him. Wings in a human _human?_ can by no stretch of the imagination be brought within the definition of acceptable.

 

 Mycroft’s scepticism at the idea of Sherlock being able to stand is writ clear on his face. He takes Sherlock’s hand, but only as a stepping stone to grasping him by the elbows and hauling him to his feet. Sherlock tips forward towards Myrcoft, and his feet scrabble for purchase on the road. John wants to help him, but hangs back as Mycroft slings one of his arms over his shoulder and takes Sherlock’s entire weight.

 

The monstrous Jag pulls into the alley and Anthea leaps from the driver’s seat to open the right door for Mycroft. John goes to the left, and he suspects that Sherlock would have taken the right window seat if not for Mycroft’s masterful wrangling. Sherlock retaliates by resolutely fixing his gaze on the back of the driver’s head. The man grows increasingly nervous; he has been checking the rearview mirror every few seconds since he first looked up and accidentally made eye contact with the visibly frustrated, bloody, winged, spectre in the back. Anthea, in the passenger seat, betrays no such discomfort.

 

xxxxx

 

Baker Street is quiet when they pull up outside the flat. John is grateful, until he spots that two of the streetlights have apparently blown out. Mycroft is probably responsible for this.

 

John hurriedly unlocks their front door while Mycroft holds the car door open for Sherlock. He hesitates for a moment, but then leaps from the car and dashes into the flat as if he had hounds on his heel. Once inside, he sags against the wall, breathing hard. John moves forward to catch him in case he falls, but Sherlock’s left wing comes up to shield his body. John stops in his tracks and Sherlock lowers his eyes, even though the wing remains raised between them.

 

The claustrophobia of the moment is elevated when Mycroft steps in, catches Sherlock’s eye and looks pointedly at the stairs. Sherlock lowers his wing to let Mycroft take him under the arm and haul him up. John follows behind, feeling very much like a flower girl in a wedding procession – utterly useless, but incapable of walking away. At the threshold of Sherlock’s room, Mycroft says to him “Some clean water and towels would be useful. As well as antiseptic and gauze.”

 

It grates to be treated like a dogsbody by someone with no medical training, but John bites back his irritation and sets about collecting these items from the four corners of the flat. By the time the water has cooled and he has carted the items to Sherlock’s room, he finds that Mycroft has wrangled Sherlock out of his suit and into his pyjamas. Sherlock is propped up against his pillows, which are almost obscured by his wings, and a scowl twists his face. Whether it is caused by Mycroft’s prolonged presence or the teddy bear t-shirt he seems to have dug out from the mysterious depths of Sherlock’s cupboard, John does not know. He is relieved, however, that Sherlock is feeling well enough to keep up the charade of arch-enmity with Mycroft.

 

Mycroft sets quickly to work with the towels, wiping away the bloodstains that cover Sherlock’s arm and neck, but leaves the wounded wing alone. In the midst of his ministrations, Sherlock glances at John, relegated to the sidelines, for the barest of moments, as if doing it quickly would spare him being caught looking. John did not need to see that sideways glance to be aware of the Sherlock’s uncertainty; he can tell from the myriad of tell-tale signs that he has learnt to read over the past 2 years.

 

Mycroft’s phone rings, and he lets it ring nine times before dropping the towel to answer it. It last for less than a minute, and Mycroft does not say a word beyond “noted”. Sherlock looks up at him when he disconnects the call.

 

“There are guards posted at both ends of Baker Street, though it is unlikely that Moran will come here tonight. I’ll have a car sent around as well.”

 

Sherlock does not protest. Mycroft moves forward to touch his wing, but Sherlock draws away from him. “It’s fine.”

 

With an air of calculated nonchalance, Mycroft dons his coat and walks towards the door. Pausing on the threshold, as if maximising the dramatic effect of his words, he says “Do try to be careful, Sherlock. For the time being.”

 

It goes to show how much Sherlock has been shaken by tonight’s events that he nods sharply once, before resuming his standard operating procedure of loudly ignoring the rest of the room.

 

John follows Mycroft outside. In the hall, some of the rigidity melts away from Mycroft’s shoulders – he looks tired, almost like Lestrade does when Sherlock makes his deductions and walks away leaving a fuckton of paperwork for the department to deal with.

 

“What my brother needs at the moment is rest. More of it than he usually allows himself, but you know better than I how to make him see reason.” His eyes are cast downwards when he says this, as if unwilling to admit his lack of expertise in a matter clearly dear to him. “However, a cup of tea will not hurt him. Or you.”

 

When Mycroft leaves, John takes his advice and sets the kettle on boil, all the while keeping an ear out for sounds of distress. There are none. He refuses to let himself think the thoughts he so desperately wants to, because he is first and foremost a doctor, and he has been trained to do his job regardless of the private lives of his patients. It is a duty he owes twicefold to Sherlock. 

 

When John brings the tea into the bedroom, Sherlock is half-asleep. John does not know whether to wait until his friend/patient is not teetering on the edge of consciousness to have this conversation, or whether he should quash this awkwardness before it grows into something neither of them will have the courage to handle. It is not as if he knows what to say, or even what he thinks about the situation.

 

“You’ll have questions,” Sherlock suddenly says.

 

“I’ll tender you a list sorted into biological, anatomical and physical subcategories,” he says, hoping to introduce some levity into the atmosphere; trying to say without words that he is not scared or remotely inclined to start calling Sherlock a freak.

 

The corners of Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards briefly, but it is a sad smile that, instead of reassuring him, makes his heart sink.

 

“Good old John Watson,” Sherlock drawls, “in arduis fidelis, was it? Or, ‘it’s all fine’?”

 

“It is fi-”

 

“I know I’m not the most trustworthy person, or an easy friend to have, but I would be doing you a grave injustice if I didn’t tell you the truth in its entirety about all this.”

 

“Your brother said you need rest and tea. As much as I would love to hear this explanation, I agree with him.” He pushes the cup of tea into Sherlock’s hands. “Here’s the tea, and when you’re done with that, you’ll rest.”

 

“It will take far more than one bullet to put me to pasture like Mycroft is so intent on doing.” Sherlock looks up at John, and reverses the dynamic of their relationship. “Please.”

 

It works. John sits on the edge of his ridiculously comfortable bed and tries very hard not to stare at the great black wings seemingly blooming from behind Sherlock. He settles for taking a sip of his tea.

 

“You must have noticed that Mycroft’s wings are white, and mine are not.”

 

John nods.

 

“Well,” Sherlock casts around for words “I believe you might be familiar with the general, overarching myth of why that might be.”

 

“Sorry, what?” John is familiar enough with the Holmes brothers to know that they resorted to unnecessarily convolution when they were unsure of themselves, so he catches himself. “No, sorry, go on.”

 

“The details are all inaccurate, of course, but the conflict is real enough.”

 

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

 

This time, Sherlock snaps. “Oh, just think for a minute! You were there when I called Mycroft. What did I call him?”

 

“Mycr-” then he remembers. “No, wait, you called him My.”

 

“Which is?”

 

“Your pet name for Mycroft?”

 

Sherlock does not smile at this joke. “My is short for Michael.”

 

John herds the errant idea that he might know what Sherlock is talking about into the darkest corner of his mind, where he keeps the remnants of an IED that disembowelled a pregnant woman with the night Harry drank herself into intensive care. It is impossible. _Even after tonight?_ the thought adds helpfully as it is shown the door.

 

“So, your name may not be Sherlock?”

 

“It is one of many names, and it was once true. My hair used to be fair, and it was not the only thing that was fair and light about me.”

 

“So what are you getting at?”

 

“The exact thing that you’re refusing to let yourself believe.”

 

“What, that you’re some sort of demon?”

 

“No. I suppose the term you’d be most familiar with is angel, although sebitti and bodhisattva work just as well, and many other names in the history of the world.”

 

John takes a deep breath. “Okay, let’s assume that you’re an angel. So, Mycroft is Michael. And you…”

 

Sherlock is watching him intently, and John can see the same uncertainty, the same fear in his eyes that he did at the Pool. That, more than anything, makes him say the names he already guessed. “You’re Lucifer. _Satan_.”

 

Sherlock actually flinches at the name, but does not deny it. There is a grim satisfaction in his face. John shakily stands from the bed, feeling out-of-depth to an extent that cannot be described by any word in his vocabulary. There are no similes for what his facing, because nothing is quite like watching your flatmate, with whom you have lived for over a year and for whom you are willing to die, sprout wings longer than you are tall and then inform you, quite calmly, that he is the Devil. “Right. Okay.”

 

In the dark, with a sliver of moonlight shining through the window, the sharp angles of Sherlock’s face look shadowed and foreboding. His light eyes look alien, cat-like.

 

“You need to rest. And I need it too.”

 

Sherlock turns to look at him, and all at once what was other and sinister becomes, to his eyes, young and vulnerable. John takes the untouched, cold tea from Sherlock’s unresisting hands. “Just go to sleep,” he says “We’ll talk in the morning.”

 

XXXXX

 

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I wrote once upon a time. I was rereading some of my older fics and thought this was good enough to be posted.


End file.
